


Ten Grand Bounty

by PICNICpanic



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Case Fic, Detectives, Eventual Smut, For All You Good Folks, Humor, M/M, Minor Character Death, Reunions, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Swearing, This Fandom Has 10000 Fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-21 01:18:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9525080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PICNICpanic/pseuds/PICNICpanic
Summary: Not a lot of things surprised Jesse these days. Granted, having a right eye that let him see the dead was probably half the reason for that, but his work as a private detective certainly helped.So when he sees his old boss break into his office with bullet holes and shrapnel in his coat – 2 years after he’s pronounced dead – it doesn’t come as too much of a shock, all things considered. What does rattle him is that it seems the guy is trying his hardest to keep his identity unknown, and that he actually isn’t dead, smoke and costume aside.And that he’s got a job offer. One that involves finding a guy with a mere ten grand bounty on his head.





	1. Long Overdue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! (imagine that said in Mercy's voice, if you'll be so kind)
> 
> Got this idea for a fic when I saw that mother of God, there's 10000 Overwatch fics here, and so I thought I'd add write this as my own contribution to the fandom (and the ship, dang). The McReyes ship always got to me, 'cause it's some pretty depressing stuff most of the time, and I haven't really read a lengthy fic yet that I could obsess over, so I tried my hand at making my own.  
> Expect Michael Bay levels of explosions and action, ghosts and spirit trip-fests and some film noir-style investigations and deductions and stuff like that. And the ages and stuff are all messed, so just bear with me on that and my attempt at talking about law enforcement and stuff.
> 
> Am I writing this because I haven't been able to get my hands on the latest Ace Attorney game? Hush, child, don't make me cry.
> 
> Keep in mind this is my first fic ever, anywhere, so it might be an absolute shocker.
> 
> Enjoy.

Jesse had long decided to close up shop for the night when he’d heard the familiar piercing crack of gunfire outside his door.

He was giving his office a two-month-overdue clean, duster in one hand and hat in the other, when the sound reached his ears and he’d dropped both items to jump and roll towards his desk. With his mechanical hand, the gunslinger reached desperately for his revolver in the drawer, waiting until the clink of colliding metal told him he’d found what he was after. His fingers clutched around it, the Peacekeeper, and idly, he wondered if he’d be able to avoid any fighting today, praying that his office wouldn’t be destroyed more so than it already was.

But someone had chosen that moment to send two pistol rounds through the window by the door, shattering the glass and startling Jesse into cutting that idea short.

Not for the first time, he considered that perhaps someone had caught wind of his involvement in another case, and if its conclusion had been particularly brutal, then it’d be a given that someone would hold a grudge against him. He didn’t condone it, but decisions fueled by the emotions of bitter people were still mostly rational at the end of the day. With that in mind, he was debating whether he should let the gunfight continue or if he should reveal himself and end the fight early, when another bullet hissed past to fracture an antique clock on the wall behind him. By that point he’d resigned himself to a grueling evening, and stepped across the wooden planks to the door.

His good hand was already gripping the doorknob when a man all but knocked the door down with his weight, losing his footing before slamming the now crooked door behind him as wood splintered his arm with how much force he applied.

Course, the first thing Jesse was scouting for was his face, pointing a gun to the intruder’s forehead on reflex, but the man had donned on a mask which was partly metal and ceramic, and could pass for birdlike if it wasn’t so ghostly. The guy must’ve had a thing for black leather because he was clad in it from head to toe, and his hand – his _clawed_ hand, Jesse realized, dumbfounded – was still pushing against the door to keep it shut. There were thin tendrils of smoke surrounding him, and the distinct smell of gunpowder wafted around, guiding Jesse’s eyes to the holes and metal in the man’s coat, still glowing red. The get-up left Jesse wondering if he should chuckle or cower, and when he caught sight of the set of holsters around the man’s waist, partially hidden but clearly indicating that he was _armed_ , the correct choice was starting to look a lot more obvious.

Then again, Jesse wasn’t known for impeccable decision-making, and the vague sense that this was somehow familiar, coupled with an impending fear, left him reverting back to old habits.

“You the reason fer the noise out there, boss?”

And _shit_ , if that wasn’t the worst remark he could’ve come up with; the man looked about two feet out the door with how much he’d recoiled. That reaction in itself was, admittedly, _pretty goddamned whack_ , but Jesse was too busy trying to backpedal and figure out how he and his office were going to survive this encounter unscathed to ponder on that, let alone his reasons for his own comment.

But the man hadn’t said a word. If anything, his shoulders were squared stiff, and though there was no expression to judge, the man’s body language was frightfully tense. _He’s shocked,_ Jesse gathered, but since this man in black had been fine with being shot at and trespassing, Jesse thought briefly that he might’ve recognized him, and if that were the reason for the silence, then there was also a high chance of that turning out to be a curse rather than a blessing.

“Hey now, while I’ve been given the cold shoulder a fair number o’ times, I don’t think it’s any kind of ya to do that when you’ve gone ‘bout breaking my damned door.” He punctuated the words with a kick to the rickety wood with his foot for good measure, and had to shuffle a cabinet across to avoid having it cave in.

Jesse tried to come up with something more reassuring, but every now and then a word of his would be interrupted by the chipping of wood or crash of glass as bullets continued to break into the building. So he allowed himself to compromise, because if he had to deal with a guy that he hoped to issue a restraining order on at a later date, he would at least deal with his pursuers first.

“Alright, sunshine, you ain’t gotta give me yer name. But dear God, how many are there?” Jesse bit out, glowering as he did so, but he brought his gun back so the muzzle faced the ground.

That made the man flinch, and Jesse hoped that he at least felt guilty about taking his shootout to some guy’s workplace. Nonetheless, the curt response seemed to calm him enough to get his voice back.

“Twelve, last I checked,” he grumbled, and he almost looked _bashful,_ placing his hand over his mask to shelter himself as he crouched in the direction of the desk.

Funny as that was, however, the circumstances were definitely not.

“Damn me to hell. Who’re they with?” Jesse couldn’t help the way he snarled, because if these guys weren’t bandits or assassins or any other damned person he’d be fine with offing, the man beside him was going to be sorry.

Said man huffed and swiveled to face Jesse with what had to have been a glare behind the mask. “Killing them’s not an issue,  _cabrón,_ ” he spat, and he sounded past disdainful, “Talon operatives. You’d be doing them a favor.”

Jesse wanted to believe him, truly, and for all the wrong reasons he found himself inclined to. There was something about the way the man’s low voice got under his skin, and something about the fact that this man had the gall to insult him after storming into his office and letting bullets take it apart that reminded him of someone who had been both pleasant and exhausting, all at once. The memories were barely there, and he struggled to place what exactly he was even trying to remember, but that uncertainty didn’t reach his voice when he replied.

“Whatever you say, boss,” the phrase came naturally, and he carried on even though it earned a glance from the hooded figure to his right. “We goin’ fifty-fifty? I don’t think those guns you’re packin’ will do much good ‘gainst the riflemen there.”

The man was quiet for a bit, likely mulling over what he’d heard, and Jesse realized that he hadn’t actually had a glimpse of the man’s weaponry yet, and had only made assumptions based on his equipment and the initial trail of smoke following him when he’d broken in.

“How’d you know there were riflemen, kid?” He chose to say after a time, pointedly ignoring the assessment about him baring arms. But Jesse wasn’t content with the wording.

“I’m 28, _old man_ , cut me some slack!” The man remained silent save for quietly snickering under his breath, and Jesse noticed he hadn’t yet answered the question. “Thought the sounds of goddamned rifles were clear ‘nuff.”

As if summoned, he heard one particular shot ricochet off his prosthetic – which he’d moved out of cover in his carelessness – and the shock of the clashing noise almost made him drop his gun.

“Shit! Look, just take out the guys at the front, I’ll cover you, uh,” Jesse’s voice trailed off unevenly, and he began wishing that he’d insisted on getting the man’s name after all.

“Reaper,” he supplied, and for the first time since they’d run into each other, there was only willing agreement between them, Reaper breaking the glass of the window to enter the firing range proper.

It should’ve been beyond unnatural, working with a man he’d never met. But Jesse felt, inexplicably, more at ease than he had been in months after taking up his new job. Bounding up the staircase to reach a better firing position on the second floor, he shifted behind the cover of the railing and drew his gun, checking the cylinder to count his rounds. Being a detective could get monotonous, even draining, but the start of a fight always managed to send adrenaline coursing through his system. From the height of this floor even gravity seemed to aid him, and as he lined up his shots his hand tracked a man closing in on the entrance. He hadn’t noticed, caught up in the rush, but his breathing slowed as he put pressure on the trigger.

_One down. Still a few more to go, kid._

The voice in his mind reverberated over his revolver’s grating blast, and his arm seemed to move on its own then, eyes squinted to take more difficult shots and legs carrying him without hesitation as he changed position constantly, avoiding shots and placing his own between the eyes of the mercenaries.

_Two’s company, and three’s a crowd._

When the bullets punctured the men’s skin, red scattering in the process, he roughly counted how many bodies littered the street. Thankfully there hadn’t been any civilian casualties from what he could gather, and comforted, he relocated quickly once again, gun aimed at a man laying prone on the balcony of a distant terrace. He looked at Jesse then, their eyes meeting before another shot rang out.

_Four, huh? Not bad._

The motions were instinctual by that point, and the symphony of fire, footsteps, muffled shouting, and of his superior goading him to try harder had become nothing more than background noise. He almost forgot that he hadn’t been working alone, and that’s when his gaze switched to focus in on the shroud of black in his peripherals.

Where Jesse’s footwork and attuned sense for the battlefield had helped him avoid most of the bullets that were fired his way, the man he’d been backing up seemed to do none of that, instead walking right into the fray.

In a panic, Jesse nearly called out to him, wondering why he had to be stuck protecting an _amateur with a death wish,_ when he heard a murmur chiding him with a laugh.

_Now, now. Don’t get too caught up in your own world._

The words shouldn’t have affected him the way they did; not after the man they’d belonged to had burned up in embers. But Jesse took from them what he could out of habit, reminding himself that they were outnumbered, and letting his guard falter for even the briefest of moments could end with his flesh ripped to shreds.  _Like it did to you, ain’t that right, Cap’n?_

He was doing a great job at staying alert, ducking when necessary and returning fire with accuracy, and he’d been so fixed on the back and forth between him and the mercenaries that he’d managed to lose count of how many he’d downed. He was crouching low, slotting bullets into the cylinder and letting it spin, when he’d heard the sound of a strong wind to his right, like the whistle of an approaching dust storm. He’d backed away on impulse, mind in disarray as he tried to name what had been in his ears only seconds prior. His steps were slow and left him vulnerable, and when he could concentrate enough to realize that he was burning around his shoulder and chest, he was greeted by the sight of deep crimson blooming through his serape, and he ripped it off to see a bullet embedded near his collarbone.

_I don’t have time to stand around saying I told you so, McCree._

His breath sounded heavy in his ears, and while the gunshots and resounding blares had been barely audible over his panting and heartbeat, everything seemed to die down as he willed his breathing to steady itself, the pain in his upper body stinging sharply.

But even the pain seemed to turn numb when he heard howling laughter barking out from the smoke below him. Jesse searched around the street then, and taking in the numerous bloodied expressions of horror and dread, eyes wide and jaws hanging low, he permitted himself a glance at the man below him. He was thankful for the lack of bullets sent his way, because as soon as his eyes reached Reaper’s mask and coat, he wasn’t sure if his feet would cooperate with him, rooted to the floor in alarm.

The guy really couldn’t get any flashier, and Jesse inwardly laughed at how it just _figures_ that a guy in that kind of outfit would also be in possession of something as ridiculous and lethal as he was.

Shotguns. The guy’s been dual-wielding _shotguns_.

Absently, he reasoned that this Reaper was most likely so nonchalant about being called out earlier because he had faith that he wouldn’t even _need_ bullets to get through a sour situation, and if he could take the kick of having a shotgun in each hand, then it wouldn’t be a stretch to believe that. It wasn’t a reassuring conclusion by any means, but it left Jesse thinking; waiting eagerly to watch the man in the midst of battle.

The two must’ve done a better job than Jesse had registered because only five men remained. Reaper sauntered forward, legs moving even as the group emptied their guns into him in their panic, and the lone figure was eerily calm. His figure appeared to fade at times, arms morphing into a black haze of smoke, and if Jesse wasn’t enraptured then, he certainly was when Reaper raised his shotguns. The pair of snapping noises that boomed from his weapons was deafening, but Jesse couldn’t bring himself to cover his ears, opting to witness the spectacle before him in all its glory.

It was something else entirely.

Where Jesse prided himself on his quick thinking and the tricks up his sleeve, Reaper seemed to have him beat with the _command_ he had over the field: shots seemingly off-kilter, but well-placed if one factored in the _fear_ it evoked in the men who watched. A shot to the leg, tearing apart the flesh and leaving the man begging and crawling, or getting in close to pull out an eye, basking in the screaming that followed. It occurred to Jesse that Reaper was basically torturing his targets, and he would’ve been put-off by how outright _dirty_ it was, but he was too stunned by what he saw.

When not a soul had the nerve to move, Reaper must’ve decided that it was due time to end the battle. He looked regal, faintly, as he drew his guns high and spun on his heel, and it was not something a man should try in the heat of battle, but he made it seem _right:_ the man laughed, the sound controlled but hysterical as he shot around him in all directions, and for just about each shot a man fell, collapsing with a dim thud. The blatant cruelty of the man was chilling, but Jesse had been horrified for another reason entirely.

All it took was that image before his eyes, of a man running into the open with criss-crossing holsters, letting the crack of his guns be heard, to leave Jesse’s mind reeling with a revelation he wasn’t sure he was meant to have come to yet. Yet nothing else would explain why this unnamed man seemed so uncannily familiar, or why there’d been that undeniable sense of déjà vu just from seeing him slam the door shut, and _god_ , the guns really were the icing on the cake, weren’t they.

_Reyes._

_Gabriel goddamned Reyes._

The situation was starting to feel too similar to what were officially the last moments of Reyes’ life. It hadn’t been grandiose or even heroic – they’d been outnumbered, scared, and in his anger Reyes turned on their commander, Jack, working hard to empty his guns into him instead of the man they were after, and then there were flames, and the burn of an explosion that tore the building around them apart, destroying what was their headquarters, their _home-_

Jesse shook his head, hoping that it would slow the barrage of memories he thought he had forgotten. It startled him to remember that Reyes- no, Reaper, was still out in the street, and when the man looked up towards the open window, he must’ve seen something on Jesse’s face which betrayed his internal panic, though not wholly seeing through what had caused it.

“God, _vaquero,_ get your act together,” Reaper chastised, but he was moving quickly to put away his weapons and heading back towards the office hurriedly. “You’re bleeding. Sit down and give me a moment.”

Something told Jesse that when a man breaks into your office you shouldn’t let him take control, _Ana's wisdom I bet_ , but just hearing the voice that had kept him going for _years_ now was enough to make him surrender. He slipped back into an armchair, pain magnifying tenfold without the threat of death looming, and he tried his best to take his shirt off without irritating the skin around his wounds. His eyes set on the gleaming metal visible on the surface, taunting him, and he winced when he brushed his hand against it.

“For the love of- whatever you’re doing, stop,” Reaper spoke firmly from the stairwell, a large kit in hand, “I thought you’d be used to dealing with wounds by now, but you never cease to amaze.”

Jesse knew the words were meant to be comforting, at least as much as Reyes was capable of, and though it had the intended effect, he couldn’t help but smirk at the familiarity of it all. _Next there’ll be an insult, directed at both me and himself on the sly-_

“Why can’t you just stay out of trouble, _pendejo_?”

The predictable slur was more affirming than anyone could have hoped for, and Jesse was about to talk about old times and ask questions about what the hell had happened in the last few years when he’d remembered that Reyes hadn’t entered his office as his old boss.

He’d entered as _Reaper._

So, begrudgingly, he played it safe, noting that until that mask came off, there would probably be little chance of having a well-overdue discussion.

“Good question, but maybe you should ask yourself that, Reaper,” Jesse leaned back further into the leather behind him as the man reached into the container, pulling out surgical pliers and antiseptic, and the retort must have ticked him off because the cowboy’s head was shoved back, and he hit the wall with a heavy thump.

“What, you want to know why I was chased into your shithole of an office?” Reaper said as he pulled the largest piece of metal from Jesse’s shoulder.

When Jesse had finished groaning, he tried his best to respond. “Damn right I do. An’ the place was just fine before ya went and-” whatever he had planned on saying, it was cut off by a sharp scream. “Fuck, easy, damn it! If you wanna torture a guy, least say so,” Jesse said, voice as threatening as he could make it when his breathing was still ragged.

Reaper seemed amused, “You were saying?”

“Look, I hadn’t planned on dealin’ with no sadist t’night, Death,” and Jesse struggled to find his breath as more shards were pulled from his shoulder, “but surely you weren’t plannin’ on spending the night with me, either.”

The man just huffed, and Jesse hated to admit that the crushing feeling he felt was disappointment and not humiliation.

_Just wait ‘til I tell Ana I tried my luck at seducing Death._

There was silence for a while, the occasional clinking of steel and harsh breathing being all that filled the room.

Eventually Reaper broke it, “To be honest, I _was_ seeking you out, as it so happens.”

And Jesse’s heart soared childishly in triumph, but the man carried on.

“Thought detectives were meant to be discreet,” a rumble sounded behind the mask, and the scowl was almost audible, “and yet you’re telling me I have to make an offer to a _cowboy_? This is one hell of a joke if I traveled half the country for this.”

Sure, Jesse wasn’t exactly aiming to piss off a man still obviously armed, but he couldn’t help the automatic reply, “Well, if you’re gonna be like that, I’d bet money you haven’t looked in a mirror lately.”

Thankfully, Reaper only chuckled, and Jesse was, not for the first time during this encounter, beyond grateful. “Knew you’d be pissed if I took a stab at the way you dress. Hope you’re not too quick to rile up during your work, though.”

The bluntness of that statement was sobering, if a little saddening. “Business before pleasure, got it,” Jesse voiced as shamelessly as he could, and the derisive snort he heard behind the mask was worth it. “Still, gettin’ pissed off depends on the job. Lay it by me.”

“Huh,” Reaper muttered, “You’re not planning on getting an introduction first?” Mask or no mask, he seemed apprehensive somehow, and Jesse responded carefully when he kept in mind that for whatever reason, this man hadn’t wanted to be remembered as his former self.

“What, think I’m stupid ‘nuff to expect your actual name when you run ‘round dressed like Death itself? I might not look it, but I wouldn’ta survived this long without somethin' in this head of mine,” his hand moved to his head automatically, preparing to greet the man proper, although he noticed belatedly that the hat was absent. “I’ll bite, though. Name’s McCree.”

Reaper must’ve deemed that Jesse hadn’t figured out who he was, sounding confident when he continued, “If you’ll take on my case, I hope Reaper will suffice.”

Jesse snorted. _God, if only he knew._

Although there must’ve been a glare behind the mask, Reaper went on, “Wish I could say this is an easy, run-of-the-mill job, but I would’ve done it myself if that were the case,” and that had to be the truth, since he pulled on another shard with a harsh tug, clearly frustrated. “Put simply, there’s a man I’m looking for. Ten thousand dollar reward to whoever finds him ‘cause he’s a vigilante of sorts. Disrupting gangs or whatever else. But we’re acquainted with one another, if you need to know that.”

“So d’you have a, uh, grudge, then?” Jesse prayed for the best, because revenge always was uglier.

Reaper paused, “Nothing that simple, but you could say that. Not why I’m after him, though.”

Jesse noted then that a reply like that promised the case was going to be a real mess, “Alright then, I won’t pry. But I’m right to say it ain’t for the money, yeah?”

“Oh?” Reaper sounded smug behind the mask, and Jesse almost thought he sounded impressed, “What makes you say that, McCree?”

 _Because I know you,_ Jesse didn’t say, but he willed his voice to stay even, “I’d say a man who’s armed to the teeth with experience to match would make little work of some small fry.”

Reaper must’ve mistakenly believed that statement meant Jesse felt uneasy knowing that he was still armed, as he stopped his work with the pliers to reach for his holsters. He took out his shotguns, placing them on the coffee table behind him, and when he moved back across the floor, he resumed his work. Jesse was fixed on the shape of the guns however, eyes following the small metal embellishments that coiled near the handles. There was the flicker of a red light there, too, and he remembered seeing that same spark when they’d gone on night missions, relieved that some things hadn’t changed. The shotguns were so different now – surface smooth with the added metal casing that was never present during Jesse’s time in law enforcement – but they were still looked after well, and the care with which they had been treated with made Jesse feel a touch nostalgic.

He must’ve stared for longer than he’d intended, what with the way Reaper halted his movements and clicked his tongue.

“Is there a problem with how I like to do business,” and if that wasn’t a euphemism Jesse wondered what was, “or are you so scared you want to empty the guns, too?” He growled, clearly put-off by what would’ve been an abnormally long silence.

Even that voice was still so openly _Reyes_ , warped as it was by the mask, and that was a heartening realization, although Jesse struggled to understand why. “Nah, you’re good, my bad,” Jesse drawled with a wave of his hand, and he scrambled to come up with an explanation that wouldn’t be such a blatant lie. “Those sure would pack quite a kick, though, hot damn.”

“Nothing I can’t handle, but maybe nothing you _could_ handle,” Jesse knew there was definitely a smirk behind the mask. _Yeah, that’s Reyes_ , he thought distantly. _Still an asshole._

“Alright, hold up now,” he had to stop this conversation from getting too familiar. Sure, he missed his boss something fierce, but he’d mourned for him, _damn it_ , he needed space. “We here to poke fun at an innocent country boy here, or are we gonna get back to the info?”

Jesse might’ve heard Reaper scoff at ‘innocent’, but the man went back to talking about the job before he could say anything in retaliation. “Right. At any rate, the guy’s a piece of work. Been on his tail for a few months now, and normally I’d just go to some informant or get an associate to squeal, but they’re all dead when I reach them,” Reaper bit that last bit out, like it’d been stuck between his teeth for hours, “But I heard that’s no problem for you, McCree.”

And that was the catch Jesse had been waiting for. While he could get a few normal jobs here and there, more often than not he was stuck using his ‘gift’.

Deadeye.

Jesse had no idea how he’d gotten it, only that one day he was your average punk in a gang, and before he knew it he’d been seeing wisps of those he killed on the battlefield. He was screaming the first time it happened, the sound snapping in the air with just how terrified he was, and the apparitions yelling at him, wishing him dead and others crying when they saw their own corpses on the ground only amplified that. The Deadlock Gang was no place for oddities either, so his outburst was met with glares and disappointed sighs, and he could remember vividly just how furious his leader had been when he’d refused to go on the next mission. _Killin’ hasn’t set in yet_ , the man had said when some of the members who were closer to Jesse had tried to back him up. _Just give the boy time_.

It wasn’t long after that when he ran into Reyes and the other members of law enforcement, busting up his sorry excuse for a gang and, for reasons Jesse still couldn’t decipher, offering him a place among them. Not that he hated them for it, though. They thought he was gifted. That he was an _asset_. Everyone’s head honcho, Jack, even told him stories about his old man who used to talk to people long gone more than the living. And Ana, bless her heart, had smiled and offered him an eye patch of hers.

Jesse cut the thought short. Thinking too much around his former colleague was making him feel old.

Although he’d grown used to the visions, which was half the reason he had barely even noticed them during the recent firefight, Deadeye still proved to be draining. He debated whether he should start going on a rant about how much of a hassle it was to use, how it was why he had to wear an eye patch most of the time, or just accept his fate resentfully.

It always was hard to say no to Reyes.

“Look, it’s not my favorite thing to use,” he sighed, and as he began explaining himself it hit him that Reaper would already know this spiel, “I mean, I see enough dead without them walkin’ about, y’know? If you think you need it that bad though, well.”

But of all possible responses, the one he got was the only one he hadn’t expected.

“Yeah, I get you. I killed some guy who tried to rob me last month, and it was a fucking nightmare hearing him drone on afterwards. Tried to throw a brick at me.”

Jesse staggered. His mind leaped to catch up with what he had heard. _No, no that couldn’t be it. How couldn’t I have seen it before? The costume, the reluctance to show his face, the immunity to bullets, and if he can see the dead, too-_

He was reaching to cover his right eye in record time, but by the time his hand had moved, Reaper was still visible. He hadn’t disappeared: his figure faded somewhat, and there were streaks of smoke circling him in a dark haze, but he was there. The relief Jesse was overcome with probably wasn’t what he should’ve felt. _He really is still here,_ he thought.  _Still alive._

“You know, I’ve never heard it from someone who can see the dead, so I’m curious,” Reaper said after watching Jesse’s predictable reaction with a huff, “What do I look like to you?”

It was hard to answer. “Never seen nothin' like it. You look like, uh, black smoke? If I don’t focus on looking at ya I guess you sorta fade a bit.”

Reaper took that as a cue to show off his twisted sense of humor.

“So,” he cut himself short to chuckle, “I did a shocking job at dying, I take it?”

If Jesse wasn’t so confused he might’ve joined in. “Yeah, guess that’s the best way ta put it. But if you don’t mind me asking, you, uh, okay? With the kinda dead thing and all.”

That made the man, the _living ghost_ , stop. “Usually it’s better than being full-dead, if you ask me.” The response only made Jesse wince. _Usually_.

“Glad ta hear it, I guess.” Jesse decided it was probably best to change subject before it got too heavy, “I don’t get it, though. If you can see ‘em clear as day, what d’ya even need me for?”

Reaper replied with a speed that demonstrated that he’d actually rehearsed this conversation in advance, “How am I supposed to know where the dead roam? Sure, seeing them is one thing, but from what I’ve heard, you investigate the living just as thoroughly as you do the dead. I couldn’t do that if I tried.”

“That a compliment? Damn, boss, you’re too much.”

The man sighed, “Can’t you at least pretend to be serious?”

“Not a chance in hell,” Jesse was quick to offer, but he took the opportunity to voice what he’d been thinking since the information had come to light, “Still, to think you’re able to see ‘em too. It’s weird.”

Reaper hummed noncommittally, “How so?”

 _Well, you’re Reyes_ , Jesse almost replied. “Well, you’re dressed like the goddamned reaper, it’s like I’m watchin’ one of my ol’ films.”

That earned what would’ve probably been a raised eyebrow if the mask wasn’t there.

“You watch movies that aren’t set in the Old West?”

Jesse just groaned, “Damn it, Death, just patch me up already. I’m too tired to deal with guys outta damn horror flicks.”

Reaper didn’t say anything to that, but Jesse thought that if the mask weren’t in the way he might’ve caught the ghost of a smile. Most of the shrapnel had already been removed, so the man had a bandage wrapped around Jesse’s upper body before too long. The fit was snug, and while Jesse could think of a good doctor who could get it feeling a lot better in less time, he appreciated the work Reaper had done, even if it was just human decency.

_If he’s even human anymore._

He was standing still, watching Jesse’s movements carefully to determine whether the first-aid he’d applied was good enough. Jesse remembered when Reyes would beat himself up whenever an op got messy, and so he reached for the table to shove the shotguns back into the arms of their owner, hoping to break what was probably a remorseful line of thought.

“Much obliged, doc,” Jesse said with what he believed was a comforting smile, “but how ‘bout you get some sleep? There’s a bed in the next room over.”

That seemed to get the man’s attention. “You’re letting a mercenary waltz into your bed? Armed? Are you getting desperate or slack?”

 _Mercenary._ He mentally jotted that detail down before preparing himself to answer. _Hell, if Reaper’s going to stay here while this job’s running, might as well keep him in a good mood_. That was the reason he gave himself for letting the innuendo pass. The truth was he didn’t want to open old wounds. That would be too much for one day.

“Being slack’s not new, boss.”

The raspy chortle he got in response was worth it.

“Should’ve expected as much from you, Jesse McCree.”

He watched Reaper head out the door, guns in hand and scorched cloak swaying slightly behind him. Jesse wasn’t all that tired, but was feeling the effects of cognitive dissonance and blood loss, with a headache that threatened to develop into a migraine and fatigue that left his legs shaking slightly. He moved to turn out the lights, kicking his shoes off and settling onto the seat as comfortably as he could. He’d kept Peacekeeper at the far end of the room on a bookshelf, which he hadn’t done in years, and he amused himself with the thought that he was letting his guard down only in the presence of one of the most dangerous people he’d come across. Yet he felt safer, somehow, even though he’d be defenseless in the wake of an intruder.

Reminding himself of what he’d learned and what they had discussed, he smirked to himself. He knew that eventually they’d reach a point where they’d have to talk, face to face, mask somewhere far enough away, but for now he decided to count his victories where he could.

_For a guy who’s trying to keep his identity a mystery, you’re getting a little slack too, boss._

He smiled despite himself, although it was hidden under the scarlet of his serape, still stained with blood.

_I never gave you my full name._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An infuriating place to end it, I know. I'm planning on updating this weekly (or fortnightly), so I'll try and get the plot going in the next few chapters, if people actually read this. Thanks for reading, if you're seeing this!
> 
> I'll see y'all next week, then! Comments and suggestions are welcome! Previously I said that I was unlikely to edit, but reading through I noticed that I'd actually mixed up Australian and American spelling, so I went back to edit after all.
> 
> Living down under is a nightmare, I tell you.


	2. The Sun Always Burns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad people liked the first chapter! Here's another, for those of you who've been waiting. Thanks for all the support, my friends! 
> 
> Writing this chapter was surprisingly hard. It kept turning out angstier than I wanted, and good God, the actual plot is progressing slowly. Hope y'all are cool with that (and not just waiting on smut, am I right), so yeah. 
> 
> Oh, and I reference the comics occasionally. I like some of the lines in it. Anyway, enjoy.

Sleep arrived unbidden, and morning let itself follow suit. As such a time often did, that meant the sun was gleaming down at Jesse harshly through what was left of the window, rays bright and unforgiving. Yet the cowboy hadn’t so much as stirred.

_Come on, kid. Get up. We’ve work to do._

The sound was clear, almost pounding in his ears, but Jesse wasn’t up for it. His chest ached acutely and he could hardly feel his good arm with the connections partly severed. He pleaded with the voice to leave, burying himself further into the armchair until he could taste hints of leather, and hid his face under his serape for good measure, still wrapped around him as a makeshift blanket.

_Damn it, McCree, that thing’s covered in blood. Filthy. Get the hell up._

Jesse was all too keen to roll to his side, or as much as the chair allowed. He’d rotated halfway, walnut hair only slightly visible with his face set in at an angle, but he hesitated with tossing around when the words fell into place. He couldn’t recall this conversation, and he’d rather be dead than make it a habit to sleep in bloodstained clothes. After all, Reyes was strict about things like that, even if he wasn’t one to follow regulations, and getting on his bad side was a fate Jesse didn’t want to picture. It crossed his mind that perhaps he was still dreaming, so he mustered the strength to get his voice to work; a last ditch effort at stealing another round of blissful ignorance.

“M’kay, Cap’n Reyes, lemme be. Few m’re mins or sumthin’,” his drawl was heavy, accent pronounced and thick with sleep. He thought maybe that had done the trick, the staccato chirping of birds and gentle murmurings of the street being all that he could hear for a couple minutes, and he was on the path back to slumbering when he felt something rest on his head.

_Do you need this to get out of bed or something? Fuck’s sake._

Jesse had no intention of listening any longer. The voice was smooth as coffee, and the cadence was measured as if ridiculing the feral burn he felt with each movement. But the fact that he was getting gifts from his own _imagination_ had Jesse pushing himself up on his arms immediately, mumbling under his breath. His metallic hand traveled to touch the new addition of fabric on his head, and he blinked blearily when he brought it in front of his eyes and saw the blurred shape of his hat.

“Good God, I thought you’d never wake. Should’ve left you to bleed out when I had the chance.”

His captain’s voice was too real then and much too close, and Jesse was whipping around, instincts kicking in, but when his vision refocused, he was met with only the empty eyes of Reaper’s mask.

Everything that had transpired hours before came rushing back in a flurry, and Jesse was close to writing it off as a particularly lucid dream formed after lonely nights and the result of failing to come to terms with the grievous fate of a man who’d taught him everything. He was just about convinced of it, too, _because surely the costume had to be some overdone symbolic shit_ , but the sting around his collarbone protested scornfully. The wake-up call was ruthless, and remembering that the man he’d been speaking to tiredly wasn’t open to admitting who he was only made it that much worse.

So really, it wasn’t hard to sum up his chaotic maelstrom of thoughts at that moment.

“Shit.”

Reaper was just as articulate. “Yeah.”

Neither of the two wavered then, tension hovering in the air.

 _Well, so much for needing space,_ Jesse reflected with a sigh.

Without any job-related points to discuss, safe conversation topics to explore or questions that wouldn’t breach Reaper’s privacy, Jesse became aware of just how unbelievably _awkward_ their meetings were going to be. He strived to change that, and decided to go with the first coherent sentence he could form.

“How was yer sleep?” It occurred to him that the question was probably not what Reaper was waiting to hear.

Said man paused, on the verge of letting loose a quip.

“Slept like the dead.”

“Alright, yep, I deserved that ‘un in full. Or, uh, half, in your case.”

Reaper chose to give him a complete answer, probably starved for acceptable conversation starters himself. “It was fine. Not as good as yours, I take it.”

 _And wasn’t that a fact_. “Christ, don’t remind me. How long were ya tryin’ to get me up?”

“Oh, you know. It was nearing an hour.”

Jesse spluttered. “Didn’t I say a few more minutes, boss?! Wasn’t askin’ fer another day!”

“Knocking you out for a full day sounds awfully tempting, though.” While the threat was likely a viable course of action for Reaper, he didn’t sound like he planned on going through with it, and wasn’t that just _mighty kind of him._

“Lay off.”

And the man did, Jesse taking the opportunity to sit properly on the chair with his back upright. He was eager to find out just how much he could wring out of the man he’d once worked under, so he tried for something else. “Did I say anythin’?”

It came as no surprise that the question had Reaper stalling, “You don’t know? Or is your memory really that shot?” His words were slow and methodical though, and it seemed that he was treading carefully or waiting for a hint to settle. Jesse wanted to dismiss it, but if Reaper had tried to wake him up for the best part of an hour, it was all too likely that Jesse had let something slip that he really shouldn’t have.

The thought was disquieting, and he spoke only after a lot of deliberation. “Didn’t call you darlin’, did I?”

“You did worse than that,” Reaper tittered, “but come to think of it-”

Jesse rose to leave the reveal behind. He liked to think that he was a dignified man, but anxiety had trickled in, and he wasn’t filled with nearly enough imperative caffeine or booze to deal with an axe to his pride. He’d moved out of his seat, nearly starting his stride for the door when his legs shifted. He froze.

Recognition dawned on him, by which point he sat down with a start. He hadn’t remembered much of his sleep, or dreams, more relevantly, but each motion had him grasping some semblance of an idea. Jesse’s face felt warm as he brought his thighs close, the action drawing his attention to an undeniably present insinuation. He wouldn’t admit it, but his cheeks darkened as Reaper’s comment echoed in full.

_Ah._

Jesse choked. “Well, hang me _high_.”

Reaper let himself give a roar of laughter at that. “Since you asked so nicely, but maybe after the job’s done, kid.”

The embarrassment was debilitating, but it dimmed gently with the deflection. There always was a concealed savior in the guise of Reyes’ ability to segue into work from just about any conversation. The guy was a complete _hardass,_ and Jesse would be lying if he said that it wasn’t more than a little irritating to hear him talk about assignments even after several drinks, but where others had offered their condolences, he’d offered a few hours sparring in the ring. It was an act of kindness screened by callousness, and one of many. More often than not, Jesse’s skin would be marred violet each time, but the discomfort served as a welcome distraction. He knew the crew condemned such treatment and the medic’s sad smile was evidence of that, along with the questioning gazes and pitying glances that had been sent his way for at least half a year after he’d joined the force. They showed their concern through sympathy, but never had the captain. Even if the others thought it bordered on inhuman.

_Guess they’re right about that, huh?_

“Ah, yeah, um,” Jesse fumbled over his words a little, snapping out of his reverie, “about that, I don’t wanna be crude or nothin’, but how’re we goin’ ‘bout-”

“Payment?” Reaper saved him the trouble.

“Yeah. That.”

“Well, if you want to turn him in to the cops,” he tilted his head slightly in thought, “I’m thinking you can get by with the bounty to our vigilante’s name.”

Jesse couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice, “Thought this op was gonna last us months, boss.” He wasn’t sure if the dejected feeling blooming was a result of the considerably meager pay, or if it was because he knew Reaper would likely take the first chance he could to leave for good.

“And I don’t doubt it will,” the man grumbled quickly, “but I’m getting to that, _ingrate._ That only stands if you turn him in. If you let me deal with him,” he stopped as Jesse leaned in expectantly, “I’ve got half a million or so to spare.”

“Holy hell,” Jesse whistled uncomfortably. “Where were you when I was diggin’ for _dinero_?”

It was meant as a witty remark, as Jesse really hadn’t been that well-off. He’d never seen that much honest money in his life, and if he turned Reaper down, he was fairly certain he never would. But as it so happened, between them, there was an underlying truth to those words that was painful if interpreted earnestly, being what Jesse had wanted to voice for ages and what he was sure he had been asking in his sleep for longer still.

_Where the hell were you, boss?_

Reaper must have been thinking the same thing, and the thought must have cut him up _bad,_ because he remained quiet for longer than the conversation granted.

Jesse had more than a few dozen apologies on the tip of his tongue, and _by God,_ how he wanted to say them all and _more_ , because knowing the man the way he had meant knowing it had to take something grave to put Reyes on the spot. He’d opened his mouth and cleared his throat, the beginnings of a word on his lips before it withered. Despite every attempt to avoid it, he remembered that he wasn’t able to speak freely. That he was bound.

The agreement they had reached without so much as a word was coming back to ensnare him, and it was everything Jesse had feared: apologizing would let on that Jesse knew who the man was, and yet not doing so would leave him with a harrowing guilt. Neither option was without consequence, and he knew it would consume him regardless.

 _Damned if you do,_ Ana’s sigh hummed in his mind, _damned if you don’t._

There might’ve been tears prickling at the corners of his eyes with how hard he had to work to school his expression into one of indifference, but Jesse managed, albeit barely, and took some pointers from the man in question.

Talk about work.

“Still, ‘tis strange, though,” Jesse started, equal parts impressed and frightened by how blasé his voice sounded, “’cause I thought you held no grudge for this desperado we’re after.” The diversion did nothing to quell Jesse’s regret, but it dragged Reaper out of his silence.

“I couldn’t care less if the bastard died,” he started bitterly, “but I think he owes me some fucking favors, and I’ll be damned if he’s dead before he tells me what I want to hear. That clear enough for you?” Each syllable was laced with venom, and Jesse didn’t know if he wanted to answer.

“Couldn’t be clearer,” he replied, and he forgot for a minute that he was the one in charge of deciding whether he even took the job.

Reaper said nothing, still fuming.

“Right, well,” he sighed at last, probably also realizing he wasn’t the one with the bargaining power, “are you up for it or not?”

Jesse smirked. “Sure that wasn’t already obvious?”

And it was, really. Jesse had planned on taking the job from the start, if only to find out what had become of his boss. Even if he hadn’t, he was definitely convinced of it once he’d heard the figures, not to mention that if he turned it down, his reasons for letting Reaper stay in his lodging – and overnight, at that – were looking rather questionable. It was an immature thought, but one he factored in nonetheless.

“Good,” Reaper’s voice was only a whisper as he faced the floor, and Jesse didn’t think it’d be an exaggeration to say it sounded _relieved_.

There was a stilted silence after that, and when Jesse figured that Reaper had no intention of saying more, he volunteered to do so himself. “Right, well, I’ll let ya gimme the rundown in a bit,” he said as he rose, moving towards the bathroom, the size of which was nothing more than a large closet, “but I’m gonna go take a shower. God knows I need it.”

Reaper let a clamoring silence settle over them, before leaning back. Smug.

“A cold shower?”

“ _Haha_. Get outta here, boss.”

It _was_ a cold shower, as it turned out. Jesse hadn’t wanted to prove Reaper right, but the alternative was not one he was willing to consider at this stage. To think of Reyes so openly when he was in the next room over – that had never stopped him when Jesse was his subordinate, sure, but things were different now. Things had changed. Even if his feelings hadn’t, although he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want them to.

The chilling water made the wounds across his upper body sting terribly, and by the time he finished, reapplying the bandage was his first priority. It was difficult without Reaper’s help, although leaving the room and humiliating himself further was not an appealing thought. He managed to wrap the bandages around loosely, and when he’d dried himself off, he searched around for some clean clothes. Most of them were tattered, bloodstained or ripped, and eventually the only things left that fit the bill were white button-ups and some not-quite-destroyed khaki pants.

Jesse had never wanted to wash his serape sooner.

He was doing just that when he’d dried his hair and gotten his hat, and was by the sink when Reaper knocked.

“Did you want to get a brief now, then?” Reaper looked impatient, arms crossed and tapping his fingers quickly after he opened the door.

“There’s no rush, right?” Jesse asked, scrubbing at a patch of blood harshly. “I mean, how ‘bout after I finish cleanin’? I started yesterday, but-”

His words were spoken with the intention of keeping his boss around for as long as possible, but as he said them, thoughts jolted through him.

 _Yesterday._ _The day Reyes came in, shotguns at the ready-_

He could picture debris and the remains of a building: the battlegrounds after they’d set foot upon them. The memory had Jesse bolting down the narrow hallway before he could think twice, leaving his serape to soak and almost slipping down the stairs with the urgency in his steps. He could hear Reaper yelling somewhere behind him, probably in confusion, but he was too intent on reaching the main room without falling. He hadn’t even reached the last platform when he’d seen it.

And _holy hell._

Any attempts at cleaning now would be wasted, and if Jesse thought the top floor was a mess, then the office was a thorough _wreck._  
His eyes first caught sight of the shards of glass across the wooden flooring. Most of them were likely fragments of the now destroyed windows, but there was so much that some had to have come from the clock face, the photo frames that had copped bullets, and the circular chandelier, which had half its globes left, and those that were had been cracked beyond repair. Cream papers had fallen from the desk and steel cabinet, and they lined the floor like a rug, some singed and others dotted with burns. The cabinet, too, was ruined, punctured as it was and with dents spread around the metal. The bookcase to the side of the room had practically collapsed in on itself, with the shelves hanging on stubbornly by a single screw and the books had tumbled with the tilt. Barely visible beneath the destruction, the duster Jesse had planned on using was where it had been yesterday. But the dust was nonexistent in the scheme of things.

The burgundy leather desk chair had hardly suffered, and Jesse was somewhat grateful, moving to sit in it to assess the damage. Even the veneered desk before him was carved, with wood scratched and showcasing the coarse material underneath.

Sighing just didn’t cut it.

“You done moping?”

Reaper was sitting near the windowsill, and Jesse would have responded if he hadn’t been so busy putting together a vision of the near-future. _One that involves the goddamned landlord and a whole lotta shoutin’, for sure._

He had his head balanced in his hands, and looking through the fractured stars in the broken windows from under his hat he could see a crowd formed by the street. He looked away, knowing they’d be looking right back at him. He could still hear them, with their awed exhales and animated whispers, and Jesse knew that same inappropriate interest in the carnage would be mirrored on their faces.

_Ghouls, the lot of ‘em._

“Hey,” Reaper was speaking again, keeping a safer distance from the window and probably avoiding the stares of the public. “Do you know any of these people? Someone’s out the front asking for you.”

“Damn it,” Jesse was cursing under his breath, an unintelligible stream of colorful words. “Better not be the landlord,” he began when he regained composure. “Too early ta be dealin’ with that ugly sonuvabitch.”

Reaper scanned the crowd. “Well, I think it’s a woman, if that helps.”

Jesse opened his mouth to reply, too many questions raised by the statement, but the door clattered loudly against the floor before he could. A woman stood panting by the entrance, delicate black hair ruffled and trailing down her back, and the cobalt headpiece she usually wore was bunched around her neck along with her hood. She ran in, faded ash-grey coat catching on the frayed wood of the doorframe, and her eyes searched the room frantically before they found Jesse’s.

“The baker told me what happened, are you alright I-”

He wanted to say she was a sight for sore eyes, but stopped himself in case she’d take that too literally and start worrying.

“Ana,” he smiled.

Meeting her always was bittersweet. Back when he was an officer, Jesse knew that seeing Ana meant long days of target practice and weapons handling drills, and after the explosion, Ana was almost a reminder of his shortcomings: he was glad that Reyes had been more or less still flesh when they met, but he had to remember that the flames hadn’t been so kind to everyone.

Ana ran up to him, arms reaching around to pull him into a hug.

“Did you have to break the door down?” Jesse laughed. “Thought it took some effort to touch things nowadays.”

She stepped back slowly, and it was a strange feeling, having her fingers phase through him.

An empty yet mellow feeling.

“You’re right,” she sighed, voice more youthful than her reserved smile. “I’m sorry. Maybe I could have given you a real hug if I hadn’t done that.”

Jesse would have been startled by her uncharacteristically young voice – betrayed as it was by the wise expressions she held – but he had adjusted to it over a year ago. On the night of their reunion, he almost hadn’t recognized her under the warm luster of a pub. She sat on the stool beside him, brown eyes watching him closely, and when he saw the tattoo on her face he was talking to her with tears in his eyes, even as the other patrons eyed him with suspicion. She was almost the same, with her wit and gentle kindness, although the black hair flowing around her, the lack of scars on her skin and the smooth complexion showed otherwise – she was a phantom of her younger self.

The recollection had him instantly searching his office for the eye patch she had given him.

“Well, if it makes ya feel better,” Jesse said, hands sifting through the documents on the floor, “I got myself a client who went and did the same thing yesterday.”

“A client? Really?” Ana’s tone was a mix of shock and mirth, but she then gasped. “Oh, don’t tell me he was the one who-”

She gestured in lieu of the right words to describe the scene around her, and Jesse was swiftly shaking his head.

“No, don’t worry ‘bout it none,” he reassured with a wave of his hand, “’sides the door, he’s done nothin’. Ain’t that right, Reaper?”

It was a lie, but Reaper hadn’t replied.

In fact, he was _chuckling,_ the sound torn between contempt and amazement, and Jesse had turned so fast he’d nearly gotten whiplash.

“I thought it might’ve been a lot of people,” Reaper said with an out-of-place serenity, “but I never expected that it’d be _you._ A real ghost.”

_Didn’t think this through, did I?_

Jesse waited for an opportunity to ease the atmosphere, but Ana hadn’t stalled, moving towards the man and gathering enough energy to give his mask a tap. She seemed surprised when the contact and noise of ceramic proved that he was tangible.

“I have met Death, as you know,” she began, “but it seems you live. Who are you?”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jesse considered that perhaps he’d be lucky today. Next, Reaper would reveal himself, and they’d catch up on everything they had failed and succeeded in doing, just like old times.

_Luck’s no specialty o’ mine, though._

“Why don’t you ask the cowboy?” Reaper laughed coldly. “I don’t have time for the dead.”

He stormed off towards the stairs, and Jesse was calling out to him desperately, almost begging. He wasn’t sure if Reaper could even hear him, and could only watch the glint of iron across the man’s spine and the imprint of Reaper’s mask stitched into the tail end of his coat. Jesse nearly ran to follow him, _to stop him from leaving again,_ but Ana’s voice brought him back like a rough tug.

“Interesting _client,_ ” she assessed with an eyebrow raised.

Jesse was worried, but tried to mask it. “You implyin’ something, ma’am?”

The truth people often didn’t hear about his business was that much of the investigating was done by Ana, the only support Jesse had and the backbone of his work, and while he wouldn’t put it past her to have figured out Reaper’s identity, he sincerely hoped she hadn’t. _If she knows what he’s become-_

“I just think you seem quite fond of him,” she replied, “you know, considering that he would probably be willing to kill you at a moment’s notice.”

Her response hadn’t told him much, besides the fact that she must’ve seen the holsters. Even now Ana detested keeping secrets, but held the few ones she had closely, almost as she had her daughter. She had a habit of not letting on anything that might put her at a disadvantage, and she really would make a formidable poker player if she hadn’t been so against gambling.

“What can I say?” Jesse grinned weakly. “He’s offerin’ a pretty penny.”

“No need to play coy,” she said, and the look she leveled him with was deadly, eyes almost violently alert. “I’m guessing you know this man?”

Jesse hadn’t the heart in him to lie. “Yeah, I sure as hell do,” he responded without thinking, “just as you know him.”

Her eyes widened, but it was a slight thing. She didn’t say anything, and Jesse realized that maybe some things were better left unsaid. Unknown. He was just about to take it all back, but he couldn’t find the words. The truth came more naturally to him than anything, let alone a _lie_.

Ana was looking at the ground, eyes still and focused. She appeared to be collecting herself, emotions beginning to surface on her countenance. While facing her with visible surprise, fear and conflict, Jesse was on the brink of berating his inherent sincerity.

“You’re too open,” Ana said after a time, beating him to it. “I’m not sure what it is that has you so worried, but no, I don’t know him.”

Jesse was taken aback by more than the comment, watching her unravel before him in the subtle features on her face, and he thought for a moment that he could hear her mind whispering to him.

_Even if I did, once._

The cryptic response that Ana wouldn’t dare voice had Jesse holding his breath, and he hadn’t noticed he was painfully tense until Ana walked up to give him a slight push.

“You will tell me once this is done, though. Got it?” Ana said with her hands on her hips and face stern, the openness from before having vanished.

Jesse didn’t hesitate to answer.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ana let her frown drop to smile fondly at the predictable response, drilled into him after years of practice. It was uncomfortable after that, and Jesse was planning on going back to check on Reaper before a throbbing pain wracked through him, and he reached up to his eye with gritted teeth.

He hated being so easy to read, but Ana didn’t regard him with pity. “You were looking for this?”

In her palm was the eye patch she had given him, and Jesse felt a budding sorrow when he remembered that it was the only evidence left of the accident that Ana had gone through to need it, the scars and marks only there in memory. But he knew he needed it then, having exposed himself to too many spirits already, and it would be hard to get much done if he let fatigue overwhelm him. He reached for it, close to having it covering his eye before he halted his movements.

“Won’t be able to see you, y’know,” Jesse said with concern.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you, don’t worry.” Ana was smiling again, and it calmed even the pain Jesse felt in his eye.

It was hard to work without her direction, but Jesse decided to make progress with whatever possible before someone would decide to contact the owner of his office and get him evicted. At the same time, he knew that patching up things with Reaper was a priority, although he also knew he couldn’t do much about that without time to spare. _And a clear head, o’ course._

Picking up his camera from the desk, he walked over the collapsed door and into the bustling street, and was greeted by the cars and towering buildings and acquaintances on the sidewalks. The crowd had dispersed the moment they’d seen him exit, filtering into alleys and buildings like rats. Jesse thought the speed with which they moved was almost comical.

It was mid-spring, and the people were lively alongside the blossoming trees and nests. The town was loud to him, the sound of rattling and driving and chatting around every corner seeming almost foreign, but the casual talk he engaged in as he walked brought him back to what he knew. Warm greetings, warmer smiles – the habitual nature of it all had him glancing at the sun, which seemed to offer the same cordial welcome, telling him it was still around peak hour and giving him enough time to go down and get supplies and information. If he could afford it.

Jesse let his feet take him towards the paved expanse of the town square, planning on getting information first. There, the buildings seemed to grow larger, as if walling the area off and making the vibrant colors of the plaster suffocating. Or perhaps that illusion only surfaced when Jesse caught sight of the news bulletin.

‘Blank’ was the best word to describe it. ‘Decrepit’ came in at a close second.

All notices had been taken, hastily, if the scraps of paper still present were any indication. There were no articles, no bounty notices, and no forecasts or warnings. The wooden supports were its last legs, and Jesse wanted to scoff at the obvious negligence in maintaining the main public source of news. He didn’t, however, as the information that would have been there was crucial, so he glanced around to find another alternative.

There were people clustered in little groups wherever he looked. The baker was outside his shop, waving at Jesse and chatting excitedly to prospective customers. The headmaster of a nearby school was walking around haughtily, sparing no one so much as a glance and covering what was probably an unpleasant grimace under her smothering scarf. The grocer was the only other person Jesse could recognize by name, and while the man was checking his produce with agitation, he was likely Jesse’s best bet.

Jesse strolled up to him, but the sound of footsteps had the man screaming in his shrill voice.

“What in hell do you- Jesse,” he quickly tried to paste on a slightly more neighborly face. “Forgive me. Rough day. You know how it is.”

“Mornin’ Oliver,” Jesse nodded, “and yeah, nothin’ quite like a Friday. Hectic.”

Oliver continued moving fruits around a pallet with stiff hands. “Work’s been busy, I tell you. Even though noon is just around the corner.”

Jesse took in the man’s greyed, spiraling hair, and the way his tight grip left indents on the softer fruits.

“Hope you don’t mind me sayin’, but for a busy day, you don’t look like you’ve been sellin’ much.”

Oliver’s fingernails dug into the skin of a peach.

“Got too many things coming in. Rains have been making the farms grow wild, you know.”

Jesse tried to make sure his gaze was undetectable as he peeked to see the darkness under Oliver’s eyes, purple enough to be bruises, and the disheveled clothing he had on; back-to-front, at that. It was strange, frankly. The man always loved saying he used to be a tailor.

Jesse shrugged and pressed on, “Is that right? Been brighter than a thousand summers down in the city.”

“Take what you want,” Oliver said with his jaw clenched tight, letting the reply out one ear. “I’ll give you a discount. I had enough trouble last night, and I don’t want that kind of drama again.”

The slip-up was obvious, but Jesse knew he’d be shot down if he questioned it. So he looked around the market stall once more. It was fairly mundane: pallets, seasonal produce, varnished wood, the striped cloth cover hanging above-

The _seared_ cloth hanging above. It was only the edge of the fabric, but if you looked hard enough, the burnt brown was stark against the blue and white. Or maybe Jesse just had a good eye for the remnants of trouble.

“Did your shop get burned or something?” Jesse pointed at the cloth above them.

Oliver looked up, creases in his forehead going deeper, but he said nothing.

Jesse tried again, “Well, my office went and got shot up last night. Rough night for us all, it was. Funny that.”

The man flinched.

_Bingo._

“Not a word of this, you hear?” Oliver was whispering harshly, spitting. “There was a man, there was. He was getting followed by about six others. I don’t remember much. There was some red light or something, some shots fired. The man was a weird fellow. No one was killed, no one called the cops. He just shot some explosives and disappeared.”

Jesse replied discreetly, “Explosives?”

Oliver’s fingers reached to grip his hair in frustration before tossing Jesse a pair of keys. “Didn’t know you actually did your job, boy,” he said with a strained laugh. “Those are for my apartment. That cloth got damaged when I had it packed up at home. I’ve got nothing to hide so if you’re on a case, feel free to check around.”

“Thank ya kindly,” Jesse said with a complementary hat-tip, “but before I head off, did you get a read o’ the bulletin?”

“That was his handy work, you know,” Oliver sneered, “and I did get a look last night before he went and ripped it up.”

“Anythin’ worthy of note?”

Oliver’s eyes went a bit distant, lost in thought.

“A couple new bounties, I think.”

And Jesse had never moved faster.

A shootout at around the same time as his, a man with a bounty on the run – Jesse didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but his instincts were flaring, and they hadn’t failed him yet. He bumped into almost everyone along his side of the street as he ran, navigating as best as he could to the address embossed on the dog tag of the keys. When he made it close, he was in a boulevard not far from his office, and he had the key in the lock of a door before he was even sure if he’d gotten the right number. Luckily, the muffled click told him all he needed to know.

The scene before him was almost identical to the one at his own residence: broken furniture, shattered glass, gun damage, the works. Even the layout of the building was similar, and Jesse almost did a double-take at the familiarity of it. Gaping at the similarities would get him nowhere, however, so he looked around to find even the most subtle sign of something that set this room apart from his own as he reached to strip off his eye patch.

No one materialized and Jesse was glad, continuing his search with renewed vigor. It disappointed him to think that Ana wasn’t around, but he knew she wouldn’t be far.

It was hard, maneuvering around the glass and rubble, and while there was blood dripping down his hands from cuts, Jesse found out quite a lot of things about the grocer. For a man who had said he had nothing to hide, Oliver had some interesting secrets. Dated letters informed Jesse of an affair, photographs spoke volumes about more, and even the books the old man kept suggested that he might’ve dealt in some less savory business on the side. It was an unusual thing, as if Jesse were truly meeting the man for the first time, but he had to stop himself from getting side-tracked. After all, Reaper didn’t have much incentive to stay, cruel as that truth was, and if Jesse took his time he was almost certain the man would leave.

In fact, Jesse was about to head home to prevent that after having seen his efforts bear no fruit. The room was obviously in ruins, but nothing that lay within so far would help him track down the man responsible. He turned his back on the destruction, metal hand clenching the doorknob. He felt intuition stop him from twisting it, and reluctantly gave the room a once-over, just to be sure. The concrete and documents were proving to be misleading, so Jesse decided to focus on what had brought him here in the first place.

Explosives.

It was the only confirmed detail that separated Oliver’s account with his own, and yet he hadn’t caught any traces of singes or burns. He squatted, bringing himself closer to the floor to inspect papers and the wooden planks. He followed the rings in the merlot wood, and the color was almost black, making the search more difficult. It was only when he brushed his hand against the planks when he noticed a change in texture near the wall. He stepped back to get a better look.

_Shit._

“Ana. Ana, you there?” Jesse needed her keen eyes to witness what he had.

She walked through the doorway, giving him a worried look. “I was just outside. Did you find anything?”

_Oh boy, did I._

“Do you see it?” He reached for the camera around his neck and gestured at the floor.

Ana didn’t seem as shocked. “Burns? There were burns in your office, too, weren’t there?”

“Not these ones.”

His camera was no good, the monochromatic photos always coming out grainy. But when he saw the burnt wood through the lens, he knew he wasn’t imagining it. There they were, proud and conspicuous: three radial scorch marks, each one lined up to be the point of a triangle. To most people, what was etched into the floor would be nothing more than a strange pattern.

But they weren’t most people.

“There were no police last night, though,” Ana said slowly, as if testing the words, the concept.

“That there weren’t,” Jesse recalled.

The markings spoke of a deeper story. To have such a coordinated set of burns would require equipment designed for it, and an armory with such an item readily available was few and far between. After all, there was only one weapon they could think of that could recreate the scene, and it was standard-issue, sure, but only for authorized members of law enforcement.

_Helix rockets._

Looking at the scorched wood and thinking of the man who’d roped him into this, Jesse wondered just what he had gotten himself into.

Not for the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More cliffhangers ensue.
> 
> Just to clear a few things up: from memory, in the police hierarchy there's a commander rank, and since in the actual canonverse there's that whole promotion drama, I figured Reyes could be the rank below, so a captain. Am I doing that so that McCree can call him Cap'n? You bet. Uh, not at all.
> 
> Also, I think I described Reaper's coat as having the 'imprint of his mask' or something. I know it's not legit, but in the Wight skin, I always loved the fact that there's the pattern of Reaper's mask at the back (I chuckled when I saw that), and I always found that to be hilariously low-key narcissistic. I decided to keep that, but with his normal black coat. In case you thought it was some weird metaphor, I dunno.
> 
> See you next something! Should be sooner rather than later.


	3. Madmen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, sorry this is late! I was working on a chapter to progress the plot, but then I got the urge to write a flashback chapter while I still can.
> 
> Next chapter should be up in a couple days, if you're not a fan of police shenanigans. See ya then!

The first time he could recall it happening was in an interrogation room.

Jesse was cuffed to a chair, wrists gripped by metal and head throbbing. He hadn’t been awake long, and it looked like he hadn’t been left alone for too long either; there was a mug filled with coffee on the iron table before him, and a pack of cigarettes still open beside it. Not his thing really, but he was prepared to kill for a smoke.

He wanted to figure out who he was dealing with. Observation was one of his most basic survival tactics, saving his skin more than half the time, and yet in the oppressing grey of the room there was little he could do to make use of it. There was a mirrored window to the left of the door, unnerving and reminding him that he was almost certainly being watched. The room was bare: there were no notes on the walls, no newspapers to tell him just how long it had been since his screw-up, and definitely nothing he could use to get the drop on his captor. There was a closed folder of files near the cup, but even then it was anyone’s guess as to what was inside. What he did know wasn’t much: that whoever had caught him liked their coffee black, and that they had  _fucking pricey_ taste in cigarettes.

Jesse suspected they’d taken his cigars as well, just to put salt in the wound. There wasn’t much he could remember of what had happened before he’d lost consciousness, but he knew that he must’ve been searched thoroughly, feeling vulnerable and lighter than he had on the night of the mission. The spot where his hat usually perched on his head was empty, and even the ratty bandana he’d kept around his neck had been ripped off. Dull pain suggested that he’d been injured across his body, and while most wounds were probably internal, he could see that there were shabbily patched gashes through the slits in his worn shirt, which told him more than he cared to admit.

First, that he’d  _fucked up royally._

And second, that whoever had caught him wanted him  _alive._

They were cops, he knew, as the cleanliness of the room and its civility was something that couldn’t be reproduced by another gang. Someone from Deadlock must’ve snitched, leaking their plans to the police and probably working out a deal on the side. They were apprehended far too quickly for it to have been anything but premeditated, and thinking about their  _bastard_ of a leader, Jesse began contemplating whether the whole job had been a ruse from the start. He would’ve felt betrayed, having been with the gang ever since he began drifting, but despite that feeling of belonging he’d built he couldn’t deny that Deadlock had always been every man for himself. In the end he was only worried, and what concerned him wasn’t even whether he’d be put through torture or blackmail.

In fact, what it boiled down to was that Deadlock Gang had been finished in that fight. Decimated. Crumbled under their own corruption. There was nothing left of them, save for the embossed metal symbol on a hat Jesse didn’t know still existed.

But for some reason, he was still  _breathing_.

Jesse could feel gauze on his skin, wrapped tightly enough to dismiss any notion of it being less than deliberate. There wouldn’t be any information he could offer, not even getting a chance to see where the bodies of the others had ended up, and the thought that someone hadn’t just put a bullet through his head made him feel nauseous. He had never feared death before, and even now he was fearing just about everything but.

He opened his mouth to shout, but at that point Jesse heard the screech of the door. Two men entered, and he barely had enough sense to stifle a laugh.

It was a perfect cliché, really. One had flawless posture and a strict gait, and the only thing that might have been off about him was his blonde hair, which, shining as it was, hadn’t been combed and indicated that the man hadn’t slept in a long while. There were bags under his startling blue eyes, and if they weren’t glaring at him, Jesse thought he might’ve been let off easy.

They both made to sit down, the darker of the two looking thoroughly  _pissed off_ , and Jesse wondered whether he’d done something especially wrong or if he was just dealing with someone too used to getting coal for Christmas. He was out of uniform, wearing a beanie and an ash-grey shirt covered by a bomber jacket, and the way he walked and sat down into a chair was so  _casual_ that Jesse thought it had to be an act. If it was genuine, the man looked like he just didn’t want to be there, and didn’t make any attempts to cover it up.

Jesse found that amusing somehow, and tried to ignore him as best he could.

“Right, here’s how this will work,” the blonde started, reaching for the files and skimming them before setting them back down on the table. “We ask you questions, you answer. For your sake, I hope it doesn’t get much more complicated than that.”

Jesse scoffed, “Yeah, I don’t think ya look like the kinda guy to stay true to yer word on that.” It was hard to take the concealed threat seriously when the glare was seemingly the strongest thing about the man, but the other spoke in his stead.

“Luckily for you, cowboy,” he said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it with practiced movements, “for your crimes, there’s not much we’re not allowed to do. Orders from the higher-ups basically said ‘good luck’ and little else.” The possibility of  _torture_ went unsaid, and while Jesse was sure it was actually illegal, as the man adjusted his beanie and began citing every crime to his name, it almost sounded warranted.

Jesse hated feeling exposed, each one of their eyes trained on him viciously. For the most part, he could feel the  _hatred_  being directed at him, and while there was curiosity there as well it was hidden under the anger. He knew that messing around would probably end up with his head impaled and his existence buried.

But of course, he couldn’t help himself.

“Good cop, bad cop?” Jesse snickered and glanced at the blonde. “Sorry to break it to ya, but I never much liked bein’ good. You should prob’ly get goin’, poster boy.”

There was a pause that Jesse dreaded. The blonde was taken aback, and Jesse wanted to laugh until he heard someone do it for him, the sound unexpected. With shaking shoulders, the source of the noise looked at him closely for a moment, regarding him with something akin to bewilderment, but there was a distance and focus to his expression that made it look as though he was glancing at his reflection in water. It must’ve surprised the man too because the laugh was abruptly cut off.

“See? Told you, Jack,” his voice was deep, and he grinned fiendishly, the gravity of the situation falling apart under the tone. “No one likes a boy scout.”

Jesse scolded himself for picking favorites so early on.

“Yeah,  _vete a la chingada_ ,” he said quickly, partly because he liked having the upper-hand in negotiations – especially when they were negotiating his  _life_ – but also because the poster boy was getting on his nerves. ’Jack’ didn’t reply, only squinting angrily at the man beside him.

“ _Cálmate_ ,” the man said, addressing Jesse and leaning further into his chair, “ _no seas besugo_.”

It both surprised and annoyed Jesse knowing that someone could understand him, and he almost bristled at the reproval. He wanted to complain petulantly, but just as he was about to he couldn’t find it in him to do it. Any spite he may have had towards the man was put on hold because, well,  _goddamn did Spanish sound good coming from this guy._

“ _Me encanta el sonido de tu voz_ ,” he hadn’t meant to say that aloud, actually, but Jesse never had the best filter. “ _Cómo te llamas?”_

The guy didn’t give a proper response, instead shrugging purposefully, “ _Lo que la gente me llama_.”

“ _Anda ya!_ Yer killin’ me, _hombre_ ,” Jesse did feel a bit indignant, even if kidding, but he was forgetting that he was supposed to be preparing for whatever it was they had planned for him, and that was a welcome change.

Jack sighed at being kept out of the loop, putting a hand through his hair. “Remind me why I’m here if you’re just going to mess around, Reyes.”

‘Reyes’ seemed to know that he was beat if his scowl was any hint, and Jesse jumped on it.

“So it’s Reyes?” He gave the man a victorious grin.

He got a glare in return. “Think you’re getting a bit too comfortable, cowboy.”

Jesse thought about it long and hard, having gotten so wrapped up in the exchange that he’d forgotten the weight of shackles around his ankles. It took an appalling while for him to remember that these people were  _cops_. With that in mind, he knew he should probably stop putting his livelihood on the line with his stupidity.

He didn’t. “ _Jefe_ , then?”

It was a fitting nickname. The man had walked into the room exuding superiority, and Jesse couldn’t tell what rank he was without his uniform, but there was no doubt that he was used to calling the shots, glare enough to make a man quiver.

Jesse felt the full force of it when Reyes groaned, “Do whatever the hell you want.”

It sure felt like he was  _supposed_ to, if not for the fact that he was currently imprisoned. Jesse half-expected to be given a new box of cigars, maybe a whiskey, and then they’d start talking about terrible comedies or their favorite westerns. He almost thought he could get away with bribery, and that perhaps they would let him walk free.  _As if Deadlock Gang hadn’t just gone and blown up a full armory._

“I swear to God, Reyes, this is supposed to be an  _interrogation_ ,” Jack’s expression was dark, but his tiredness only made him sound resigned, “and yet you’re telling this kid he can ‘do whatever the hell’ he wants?”

Jesse hated that he agreed with that. The fact that he hadn’t been yelled at or hit across the jaw was more unsettling than remembering that he was defenseless. To top it all off, the unexpected warmth of the atmosphere didn’t seem artificial, although that only made him all the more wary of the man who’d been the cause of it.

Reyes’ words were teasing, but his timbre was forbidding, “Look, I get that you thought you’d be playing the good cop, but I think I’ll take over from here.”

There was something off about that, implications that Jesse couldn’t pinpoint, and he thought maybe the lighthearted talk had been an act from the start. He braced for the sound of metal instruments being taken out – one that he knew more readily than he would have hoped.

Instead, all he heard was Jack’s small gasp as he stared at the man beside him, all business and with incredulous widened eyes.

“This wasn’t what we planned.”

There was a shift in the air with his voice, and the room went cold under the frigid bluntness of it. Reyes looked grimmer when he turned to reply.

“Neither was losing eight of our own.”

It was so out of place amongst the jabs and banter that Jesse flinched. It didn’t help that he was certain he and his gang had played a part in it, and under the harsh fluorescent lighting, he began wishing he hadn’t done much on that night.

The twitch of his strained eye told him otherwise.

Jack didn’t say anything in reply, leaving with a forlorn look in his eyes and letting the door click shut behind him. That was the last sound that graced them for a while, silence falling upon them.

Jesse watched as Reyes stubbed out his cigarette, leaving it on the table and giving him a once-over. He felt vulnerable under the gaze, but he also felt that he was being  _tested_  in some way, and tried his best to avoid the urge to look away when their eyes met. Eyes locked, Jesse realized that the man’s irises weren’t as dark as he initially thought they were, closer to umber than a deep brown. He kept looking, following the neatly-trimmed facial hair complementing the tanned skin, and the perpetual scowl made by thin lips. He winced, startled by the fact that he was getting distracted far too soon, and that was what eventually made him look to the side. Reyes didn’t, however, and it was like he was searching for something, hardly sparing enough time to blink. Whatever it was he must have found it or given up on it, as he interrupted the silence by reaching for something and tossing it on the table.

Jesse’s Peacekeeper.

“Damn. Did ya have to take it?” Jesse said, the action being a brutal reminder that he had been captured and not invited. “I kinda like that thing, y’know. Only gun that works with the image.”

Reyes at least gave a sympathetic shrug.

“I did, actually,” he said, slowly. “Had to test it out. If I remember right, you had good aim with this thing. Better than the others, that’s for sure.”

Jesse felt a bit of pride, but it was smothered by oncoming apprehension. “And? How’d that testin’ work out for ya?” There were only so many tricks people could use to taunt a man who couldn't fight back, and with his most valued possession out of hand, Jesse felt tempted to growl. Forcing a man to confess when they had nothing left to lose was plain dirty, and sensing the predicament rearing its head, he tried to steady the blood beginning to boil under his skin.

Reyes glared at the revolver and spun it in his hands. “It was a fucking nightmare. Your gun’s shit.”

Jesse wondered whether the statement really was a technique to rile him up, because if so, it was working as intended. That gun had been the only thing that had stayed with him when he’d been tossed to the street like a mangy dog, and he had taken better care of it than he had himself. He would’ve tried for a childish lunge, but at the same time, he heard the call of logic in the back of his mind.

_Don’t go messin’ with someone who could have ya skinned alive._

He must’ve had a thing for danger though, because he ignored it more often than not.

“I think yer aim might just be a bit lackin’,” Jesse taunted back.

There wasn’t any kind of retaliation, and the look he got gave him pause.

“You really wanna go there, kid?” Reyes’ voice was obscured by an emotion Jesse didn’t quite know the name of, and it was enough to make him drop all malice. There was a shred of understanding in it, making the comment seem more like a veiled lecture than a threat, and suddenly the man seemed more sincere than most other policeman Jesse had had the chance to meet, words resonating kindly despite the tone.

“Why not?” Jesse grinned hesitantly, beliefs torn and uncertain after the display of  _whatever the hell it was_. “Whaddya say? You, me, a couple o’ sarsaparillas and a whole heap o’ targets shot ta pieces.”

Reyes smirked with sheer arrogance, covering up any trace of what had been there previously.

“Pretty sure they’d be the ones on my end of the range.”

Jesse had a reply at the ready quicker than he could draw. It was so earnest and transparent, as Jesse often was, but he went for the bait anyway, too enticed by the promise of competition. He struggled against his shackles as he spoke.

“How ‘bout ya get me outta these things, then? We can find out.”

Reyes was baffled, staring at Jesse with blatant disbelief before cackling without restraint. “You think I’m gonna let you walk away scot-free because of a shooting contest?”

Jesse always was a flatterer.

“Nah, just think it’d be more fun if ya beat me so bad that I come runnin’ back here ta hide,” he let himself smile.

If he was being totally honest, Jesse expected to be shot down on the spot, and his suggestion was more of a way to ease the tension than an actual request. Reyes didn’t seem like a man for pity, and Jesse knew it’d likely take a seriously dire situation to manipulate him. On top of that, he didn’t even think he  _deserved_  to be humored, still remembering the fight he’d been in like he was breathing it, and he braced himself for a crippling refusal.

It didn’t come.

Reyes got out of his seat, taking out a set of keys from his pocket and moving behind Jesse to undo the locks. Jesse tried to hide his shock when he heard a minute chime of metal, to pretend that he expected it all along, but he gaped despite his best efforts. He stood still, and Reyes didn’t even look back at him as he reached for the files on the table, flipping through some papers.

“Jesse McCree,” he said, sounding like he was trying to hide his amusement with limited success. “You are a fucking  _madman_.”

And Reyes didn’t dither even as Jesse picked up his gun from the table.

They made their way through halls, Jesse trailing behind as he was guided through more stone-colored rooms. If anyone thought anything of it they didn’t say a word, and the only interactions usually involved the occasional nod of acknowledgment at Reyes or a polite curious glance at Jesse. The walk was brisk, footsteps loud against the vinyl flooring, and Jesse was already failing to navigate through the endless torrent of white walls when they made it to a descending set of stairs.

“Uh,  _jefe_ , are ya sure I’m not meant to be cuffed right now?” Jesse couldn’t help but feel like a criminal, ironic as that was, and he had some reservations about the whole thing once they reached the entrance to the shooting range.

“There are some pretty nice cells around if you change your mind,” Reyes replied disinterestedly, and he stepped into the range to look over the guns lined across the wall.

Jesse had almost no experience with the police, but he knew that this encounter had to be breaking a ridiculous number of regulations, let alone  _laws_. There were firearms within an arm’s reach, and they ranged from handguns to assault rifles. If Jesse was restrained he’d understand, but he had free reign to make any move he wanted. Hell, he was pretty sure he’d even seen a way out while they were walking.

“Rules are you use that shoddy revolver,” Reyes began while taking a Beretta from the hook, “and I’ll use something that’s actually decent.”

“That’s a bit heavy to carry ‘round, last I used it,” Jesse couldn’t help but notice, the memory a little unpleasant.

Reyes was visibly surprised. “You don’t just stick to that gun of yours?”

Jesse would, but not every situation had been kind to him. In a couple fights gone awry, there were times when he’d been disarmed and had to make use of what was available. It felt like betrayal, leaving behind what his parents had left him with, but he made sure to go back for it each time.

“Don’t like it, but I ain’t half bad with somethin’ that ain’t a six-shooter,” Jesse shrugged.

“Huh,” Reyes moved towards the stands, taking aim. “Well, I’m used to using shotguns, if you were wondering.”

Jesse laughed, “Yeah, I can see that.”

Reyes was well-built, and if it was hardly concealed even under the looseness of his clothing, then there had to be no shortage of muscle under the jacket. The man was rugged, and had probably seen his fair share of bloodshed if the scars across his cheek were anything to go by. He had a defined jawline, taut skin, and it was certainly not a chore to stare at him. Which was what Jesse was doing, as it so happened, and Reyes glanced at him after taking a few shots, all through the center of the head and barely millimeters apart. He had the gall to feign ignorance.

“Any more rules you aren’t clear on?”

Jesse brought himself back quickly, having a chance to say what had been irking him since they’d entered.

“Uh, yeah,” he started awkwardly, still hung up on having openly admired his  _captor_ , “how ‘bout the rule where I don’t use every damn gun ‘ere to shoot  _you_?”

There was undoubtedly too much freedom. Jesse didn’t know if it was a lapse in thinking or pure confidence, but Reyes hadn’t even blinked when he’d openly armed a murderer. Whatever Reyes was doing, each movement of his seemed so  _certain_ that he must’ve been convinced that nothing would happen. It was alarming, liked he’d been here before, and even when he looked at Jesse there was a flash of familiarity in his eyes. Something was clouding his judgment, and the fact that Jesse had no idea what it was put him on edge.

Reyes probably had some trouble figuring it out himself as he hesitated to elaborate, “That’s not a rule, it’s common sense.”

“Right, right. Like common sense makes ya bring a killer out to a gun range, or makes that killer go off an’ join a gang.”

Reyes said nothing, and avoided the question Jesse wouldn’t dare ask when he did. “So why’d you sign up with Deadlock, then?”

Jesse would’ve scoffed at the diversion, but he remembered that he was technically still being interrogated, and replied automatically.

“Didn’t choose, really.” Reyes looked at him through the corner of his eye after a few shots, prompting him to continue. Jesse reluctantly took to his own stand, drawing his gun and pulling the trigger twice. “There was a fight I got in once. Went from fists to guns, next thing I knew I’d shot a guy ‘tween the eyes.”

For a policeman, Reyes sounded impressed, “Did someone go cry to the boss of Deadlock or something?”

Jesse smirked. “That was him.”

 _Beatnik beard, pitch black aviators under ceilings and clouded skies, a bald head and an incurable obsession with leopard print?_  Jesse thought about the brilliance of it all fondly.  _Couldn’t make this shit up._

Reyes didn’t even try to stop himself from doubling over, and he hadn’t even  _seen_ it, “You’re telling me you  _accidentally_  killed the old leader of Deadlock Gang? Jesus, kid.”

“Ah, well,” Jesse felt that the almost-praise was getting to him too much, all things considered, “it was nothin’. I could hold my liquor better than ‘e could. No contest.”

That made the man lower his pistol a little. “Liquor? You’d be underage, surely.”

Jesse chortled. “Damn right. Don’t go callin’ the cops on me, though.”

The remark stressed the ever-present contrast between the easiness of their conversation and the abnormality of the situation, and Jesse knew that they were both pondering on the strangeness of it as they took their shots. He got bored with going through the motions though, and reloaded so that he could shoot six consecutive shots, each at a target in a different lane. Reyes stopped to see where they’d landed.

“Pretty good,” he assessed, nodding to himself. “Quick shot, your grip’s a bit weak, though. And there’s a bit of a distance on the last one.”

“Hey, that’s ‘cause it ain’t a person! It’s flat at a dodgy angle like this!” Jesse argued, pouting and looking at the man with shamelessly genuine hurt.

“Come on, kid,” Reyes chuckled, “are you begging for praise, here? That’s pathetic. How about doing something so you earn it?”

Jesse flagrantly scrambled for an idea. He could do trick shots if he wanted, a brazen show-off in bars and known for using his revolver for impressing waitresses just as much as for doing damage. He tried thinking of something impressive enough to be worthy of watching.

“You got movin’ targets? I could do somethin’ special if you do.”

Reyes seemed to consider it, looking a little lost in thought. “Yeah, sure we do. But what I want to see is that crazy shit you pulled three days ago.”

Jesse was willing to indulge him if he could, but he was too busy staggering. “ _Three days?!_ ”

“Yeah, it was weird,” Reyes waved off his stunned response, “You killed six people in no less than a few seconds, and then you just passed out. Medic said nothing was wrong with you when we checked.”

 _It’s always Deadeye._ Jesse wasn’t sure he liked the confirmation, and knowing he’d killed people that had undoubtedly worked with the man he was speaking to was an unpleasant thought, even more so than the fact that he’d managed to enter a coma.

“You wanna see Deadeye?” Jesse wasn’t very keen to use it for its more devastating purpose, and wasn’t even sure if he could. “I’m afraid that’s a tall order. Saw it knock me out good, didn’t ya?”

“Thought that was injuries, honestly,” Reyes said while turning to face Jesse head-on.

“Well, I don’t think so,” Jesse huffed. “Deadeye’s another beast. Screws with me like nothin’ else. If ya wanna fuck me up, yer free to do so yourself, but I’d rather not be the one torturin’ me.”

He spoke harshly enough for it to be conspicuous, and Reyes put his hands up quickly, sighing. “Okay, fine. How does it even work?”

Jesse wasn’t sure how to respond to that.  _Shit, I dunno,_ just didn’t seem appropriate _._ A couple months ago he’d seen his first ghost, and then two weeks ago was the first time he’d been so desperate for a way to survive that the world had just stopped spinning. Deadeye was the only name he could think of for it. It was like he could see a string, a lifeline, gripping the people he’d been fighting and keeping them from entering the next life. He’d follow the red thread, thin and surreal, and then there it was – the perfect shot, everything else blacked out and forgotten.

Jesse thought about it. “Ah, that’s the thing. I can’t do it ‘less the target’s livin’. It’s like, uh, I see this red light, then everythin’ just feels like it slows down, and the people are all, um, glowin’. And they’re the only things I can see for a while.”

“And then you can line up shots like they’re hardly moving?”

Jesse figured it was close enough. “Yeah, something like that. See the dead, make the dead.”

“See the dead? You’re out of your mind,” Reyes was bemused, willing to write off the madness of what the cowboy was saying. A skeptic through and through, and it reflected on his face.

“Could say I’m the reaper in the flesh,” Jesse joked, knowing no explanation would be enough.

“Don’t get cocky, kid,” Reyes reprimanded him. “No matter how it works, if your ‘Deadeye’ makes you a cripple, you won’t be able to use it for anything without getting killed.”

 _Yeah. Not like that matters now,_ Jesse thought, remembering the deaths he’d caused.

He must have said it aloud though, because Reyes looked at him with barely-masked concern. “What do you mean?”

_Damn it._

“Well, y’know where I’ll be headin’ after this, don’t ya?” Jesse walked up to Reyes to hand back the revolver. “You’ve got me pinned for how many crimes? It’s the chair or prison from ‘ere. No fancy trick can get me outta that.”

It was a morbid truth, and Jesse knew he delivered it far too lightheartedly. Reyes must’ve thought the same thing, staring at Jesse with a rueful frown.

“Is that why you were such a reckless shit around Jack?” He said, voice quiet.

“Hey, I’m always reckless, don’t matter if I’m close to dyin’ or not,” Jesse smiled without reserve.

He wasn’t really looking forward to death; that would be a stretch. But it was hard to fear something he saw almost every day, either in Deadlock with a gun in his hand, or out in the open with his right eye.

Reyes didn’t seem to find it that simple.

“Anything you wished you could do?” He asked after a tense silence, and when Jesse looked at him, he saw eyes looking back sharply, judging him.

“Nothin’ of note,” Jesse laughed bitterly, “I mean, always wish I could turn things ‘round. Make an honest livin’ for once. Don’t really care how.”

Reyes turned back towards the exit, slotting his pistol on the wall and saying nothing, and it was quick enough to make Jesse stumble.

_Trust me to fuck up again._

“Hope you’re not feelin’ guilty,  _jefe_ ,” Jesse tried to reassure him, “Ain’t your fault. Ain’t mine either, but that ‘appens.”

He didn’t utter a word, and they reached the interrogation room after what felt like years of distressed quiet. Jack’s shouting ruptured it when they entered, almost in hysterics as he yelled at Reyes after seeing the open cuffs left behind, and yet Reyes still remained silent, only making the occasional grunt of acknowledgment.

Jesse watched on, knowing he owed the man nothing, but feeling at fault regardless. They didn’t know each other, much as it felt like they had, but he couldn’t control the guilt he harbored despite that.

They left before long, leaving Jesse behind and cuffs locked as he tried accepting it all. He scolded himself the instant he could, a chance having swept through his fingers. Isolated, he let even unwelcome ideas visit him; he sat in the chair and looked around, wondering for how long he’d be able to do something even that mundane, and he tried to ease the doubts and curiosities that their discussion had created. And the ones that had been brought about by the silence.

 _Guy could only put up with me for so long,_ he reasoned.

Where the one-way mirror had been a watchful presence before, Jesse began to feel that it had abandoned him. There was a chance that neither of the two officers were watching, that they were bored out of their minds, careless, disappointed in the lack of entertainment Jesse could provide. The notion that he’d _disappointed_ them was what had him trying to sleep it off, but he couldn’t settle down. Instead, he waited, feeling each hour pass in its entirety.

It had to have been half a day when Reyes eventually came back, steps weighing heavily, documents in hand and Jack walking in tow, fuming. He’d slammed the door in his haste, the loud clang enough to make Jesse alert.

“Get a read of this,” Reyes tossed some papers on the table urgently, and Jesse tilted his head to take a look.

It was his profile. A document outlining his history, behaviors, appearance, crimes-

Jesse looked at Reyes blankly, hoping that what he was seeing wasn’t due to his dangerously empty stomach.

“Says my only crime’s stealing,” he said, troubled.

“We don’t have proof otherwise, really, so that’s the truth, as far as the world’s concerned,” Reyes said, and he offered a hand. “Or at least, it will be.”

Jesse looked at it, mind not quite registering the words. “I’m thinkin’ yer makin’ a mistake here,  _jefe._ ”

Jack sighed, looking like he agreed wholeheartedly, but he spared enough generosity to answer. “This is a deal, McCree. Reyes pulled some serious goddamn strings to set it up, and I’ll be damned if you turn it down now.”

Jesse looked at Reyes briefly, in shock for the most part. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and there was nothing about the situation that seemed to help him decide.

“Forgive me if I don’t right get it,” he was moving back in his seat without knowing it, on the defensive at the potential deal.

Reyes moved closer. “You remember much of that night?”

“Thought I did, why?” Jesse shifted, impossibly uncomfortable.

“You killed five officers that day.”

Jesse’s mind was in such a mess that he laughed, startled. “Yeah, so what in hell are ya doin’, offerin’ me a pity deal?”

Neither cop offered any help with piecing the message together, and Jesse thought about what he could remember. There wasn’t much he could picture. He’d picked up his revolver while looking around the terrain under the red light of flames, and then he’d reloaded, slotting a bullet into each chamber-

_Six bullets._

“Shit, I didn’t shoot one o’ you two or somethin’, did I?”

Reyes shook his head, putting a hand on Jesse’s shoulder and sighing at the reflexive wince. “Nothing like that. You shot one of your own.”

Jesse reeled, and he’d never felt more disconcerted after discovering where the last bullet must've ended up. He hadn’t liked his crew much, but he’d be damned if he was fine betraying them.  _Makes me no better than-_

“Your leader,” Reyes filled in the blanks.

It took Jesse longer than it should’ve to realize that Reyes hadn’t read his mind, and he whispered in relief once the answer fell into place.

“Fuck, ya had me worried there, bud.”

He’d made a few friends in his years with the gang, most people similar to him in retrospect. Their group had always been a hotpot of  _interesting_ people, although they had their charms, at times. There was no denying that everyone was somewhat violent, killing instinct hardened and trained into them, but even predators could look out for one another. Except for the leader maybe, who was more animalistic than a vulture, and looked twice as horrid.

“We actually got a tip from him,” Jack continued, sounding marginally more eager to relay information, “about your plan. We took him along while we went to check it out, and there you were. All of Deadlock.” Jesse was still shaking with questions, but Jack didn’t pause to hear them. “The man got a bit excited,” somehow his voice was more scornful than it had been when addressing Jesse. “He ran in, started shooting at a few of your gang members, and a couple of ours went to restrain him since we hadn’t given him the go ahead for that.”

“That  _bastard_.”

Jack all but ignored the cowboy’s quickly darkening expression. “He almost shot one of our officers in the head, actually. And we were about to do something about it when we heard several shots. Then he just fell. Dead.”

It was hard to remember the moment it had happened. Jesse couldn’t even picture the look on his leader’s face, let alone what emotions had coursed through him when he let the shot fly.

“So I-”

“You killed him, kid,” Reyes got his attention again. “Not sure why if I’m being honest, but  _shit_ that saved Lena.”

Jesse tried to imagine the night again: the feel of the trigger under his finger, the figures of his leader and a woman, her mostly spritely expression quelled by fear and a gun to her head. He remembered taking the shot without hesitation.

“So that’s what this is?” Jesse felt so overwhelmed, and didn’t quite know how to voice his qualms about the whole deal. “Ya think I went and what, saved ‘un of yers? Is that why I'm still livin'? Maybe I just missed. Y’all are crazy.”

“Didn’t just take you shooting for fun, kid,” Reyes said, Jack looking at him with revulsion, clearly not yet privy to the information, but he went on, “You don’t miss. Not even at a good fifty yards.”

Jesse didn’t know what to say to that. He still felt he had to turn the offer down somehow, and yet he couldn’t think of any rebuttal when Reyes only gestured with his hand more fervently.

It didn’t feel like a deal; it weighed more heavily than that. It sounded like the burden of a promise or the freedom of a wish, all at once. Jesse felt like it was the fork in a road that had veered off course for so long, and he knew, somehow, that there wasn’t any turning back. Just the thought of it was too much, and he felt a gratitude that outweighed anything he could recall feeling. So he laughed, hopelessly staring at the hand with surprise and defeat.

“I’d shake on it, but I’m a little tied up ‘ere,” Jesse almost felt teary, agreeing against his better, guarded judgment, and not regretting it for a moment.

He was let out that same night, Reyes escorting him to a room for him to stay in while his allegiance was tested. He’d been fed, given time to wash up, and when Reyes looked like he was about to leave, Jesse wanted to say so many things, ask a number of questions, but in the end he just smiled.

“You’re a madman,  _jefe_.”

Reyes had chuckled, stepping close to ruffle the kid’s hair. “Won't deny it. Keep the Spanish to yourself, though. Jack will have a fit.”

Jesse couldn’t complain.

“Alright then, boss. But ‘fore you get goin’, mind evenin’ the odds a bit?”

Reyes only looked back, confused.

“Told you what got me in a gang,” Jesse continued, “but you never told me what got you into the force.”

There was a grin then, impish and promising a tale of intrigue and glory.

“Well,” Reyes pretended to be indifferent, “there was a smuggling ring, made up of about a hundred men. I didn’t think too highly of them. Not as highly as they did, anyway. So I exposed them. Tracked them down.”

“Before you were a cop?” Jesse thought it was unheard of. “God, what happened?”

Reyes’ lips turned up at the corners without warning.

“Only three left now,” he said, and there was not an ounce of remorse.

It was funny, how such a thing only made Jesse place the man on a pedestal beyond his reach, and he never felt that he’d looked up to someone more. When he slept that night he’d been at ease, remembering the warmth of a hand in his locks and the sense of  _purpose_ he’d been yearning for. He was in debt now, he knew, having been given not only shelter, but a chance to start anew.

And after a grueling month he was given a police uniform of his own, his revolver and a new serape beside it. His hat was on top of the clothing – the iconic metal skull replaced by the symbol of the county.

A county of madmen, where for once, Jesse felt at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the conversation, for you fine fellows:
> 
> J: Yeah, go fuck yourself.  
> R: Calm down, don't be an idiot.  
> (followed by Jesse's 100% appropriate response)  
> J: I love the sound of your voice. What's your name?  
> R: What they call me.  
> J: Oh, come on! Yer killin' me, man.
> 
> Really though, has anyone else listened to Reaper's Spanish voice lines? Because damn son, that is one sweet, sweet voice.


End file.
